Saturday, 27 August 2016
Friday, 12 August 2016
Visit to the Laurentians
The Swedish connection
By the time I got to college and university, the Commodore line of computers was hitting its limits. A new form of computing was emerging, using something called a GUI (Graphic User Interface). For Commodore machines, it was called GEOS. It was so different from the simple text based interfaces I knew, it was slooooowwwww, and I had no clue how to program in that environment. I felt like a fish out of water.
When I got to university I discovered a brand of computer -- the Apple Macintosh SE. It had a similar sort of GUI, and was great for writing papers and doing graphic design. Programming, however, was completely out of the question...it just wasn't designed for that. My parents eventually bought a 286 PC clone, but the only programming options were GW-BASIC (yech) and MS-DOS batch files (double-yech). Compilers could be had, but for a price, and I was faced with a steep learning curve. My studies and extra-curricular activities in college and university didn't really allow for me to start all over again from scratch, so programming took a back seat for several years.
I graduated from Concordia University in 1992 with a bachelor's degree in commerce (major: international business), and got a job at a company I had never heard of: Ericsson Research Canada, a local branch of what I would learn was a huge Swedish multinational. There was an awful recession happening at that time, so I took the first job I could to pay the rent. It was a very low-paying administrative job, but it turned out to be a time of providence in my life. In all honesty, I owe Ericsson a lot for who I am today, and I'm proud to say I'm still connected with friends I made way back when.
Now as it happened, the local branch of Ericsson I was working for was developing software for help run the cellular phone networks that were just starting to be constructed. At that time they were hiring engineers hand over fist, but not business types -- despite a degree in commerce, I was just a clerk. Still, this was one sector of the economy that was actually doing well, offering some job security, and Ericsson was big into training their people, offering some opportunity. I took one computer-based training course after another in my off-hours, learning about the principles behind cellular technology. As it turned out, cell phones were just fancy radios, and all that time I had spent with my dad learning about amateur radio made the learning curve that much easier. That's how providence works sometimes: I was a programming geek with a degree in international business and a background in radio, working for a global company writing software to run cellphone networks. It was perfect.
I can't say that everyone noticed this synchronicity at first, not even me. The real breakthrough came when I discovered something new, at least for me: the UNIX operating system. We were shifting to the use of SPARC workstations, and so the company sent me on a brief training course to become familiar with Unix. I wanted to learn more, so I downloaded an early version of a Unix "clone" called Linux and installed it on a computer at home (one of the first Slackware distributions). No one could imagine at the time that Linux would change the world, including mine.
At the time our branch of the company was preparing for our first ISO 9000 certification audit. By now I was working as a technical writer in one of our departments, and I was given the task of getting all the documentation for our department ready for the audit. Document control was a big part of the ISO 9000 standard, but we didn't have any reliable way to track our documents, their revisions, and whether or not they had been approved. To solve the problem, I wrote a database program called "TROLL" (from "document conTROL tool"). It was basically just a giant shell script that could be run from the command line of a Unix workstation, but the darned thing worked and got the job done. Everyone was surprised -- no one had thought that the administrative clerk / technical writer was also secretly a programmer. The software engineers were actually quite delighted, and my "geek cred" rose.
When the certification auditors eventually came around, our department (which was *way* behind just six months before) passed with flying colours. The effect on my career was dramatic: I became the Quality Coordinator for the department, and eventually I was promoted to manager of a unit called the Global Integration and Verification Organization. Our goal was to coordinate the process of software testing between several units throughout the world. I knew about software, I knew our processes, and I had training in cross-cultural management. At 24, it was a dream opportunity.
I did not remain in that job, of course. To many people's surprise (including my own in some ways) I handed in my resignation in June 1995 in order to enter the seminary and start my studies to become a priest. Being manager of the GIVO did allow me to leave with one other technological legacy, however. The task of coordinating between the business units involved in the GIVO required me to learn about something called the "Internet" (you may have heard of it), and particularly a new technology called the "World Wide Web" (you may have heard of that, too). Our web browser was called Mosaic, and there were very few web pages out there. Still, a whole new field was emerging. I learned how to code web pages in HTML, and in the few months prior to leaving Ericsson I actually became the first webmaster for the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops, which itself became the first episcopal conference in the world to have a presence on the web. The CCCB gave me an ongoing contract, so I was able to buy a decent computer for use during my studies -- and of course, to keep learning to program. Only now, my focus was the World Wide Web.
When I got to university I discovered a brand of computer -- the Apple Macintosh SE. It had a similar sort of GUI, and was great for writing papers and doing graphic design. Programming, however, was completely out of the question...it just wasn't designed for that. My parents eventually bought a 286 PC clone, but the only programming options were GW-BASIC (yech) and MS-DOS batch files (double-yech). Compilers could be had, but for a price, and I was faced with a steep learning curve. My studies and extra-curricular activities in college and university didn't really allow for me to start all over again from scratch, so programming took a back seat for several years.
I graduated from Concordia University in 1992 with a bachelor's degree in commerce (major: international business), and got a job at a company I had never heard of: Ericsson Research Canada, a local branch of what I would learn was a huge Swedish multinational. There was an awful recession happening at that time, so I took the first job I could to pay the rent. It was a very low-paying administrative job, but it turned out to be a time of providence in my life. In all honesty, I owe Ericsson a lot for who I am today, and I'm proud to say I'm still connected with friends I made way back when.
Now as it happened, the local branch of Ericsson I was working for was developing software for help run the cellular phone networks that were just starting to be constructed. At that time they were hiring engineers hand over fist, but not business types -- despite a degree in commerce, I was just a clerk. Still, this was one sector of the economy that was actually doing well, offering some job security, and Ericsson was big into training their people, offering some opportunity. I took one computer-based training course after another in my off-hours, learning about the principles behind cellular technology. As it turned out, cell phones were just fancy radios, and all that time I had spent with my dad learning about amateur radio made the learning curve that much easier. That's how providence works sometimes: I was a programming geek with a degree in international business and a background in radio, working for a global company writing software to run cellphone networks. It was perfect.
I can't say that everyone noticed this synchronicity at first, not even me. The real breakthrough came when I discovered something new, at least for me: the UNIX operating system. We were shifting to the use of SPARC workstations, and so the company sent me on a brief training course to become familiar with Unix. I wanted to learn more, so I downloaded an early version of a Unix "clone" called Linux and installed it on a computer at home (one of the first Slackware distributions). No one could imagine at the time that Linux would change the world, including mine.
At the time our branch of the company was preparing for our first ISO 9000 certification audit. By now I was working as a technical writer in one of our departments, and I was given the task of getting all the documentation for our department ready for the audit. Document control was a big part of the ISO 9000 standard, but we didn't have any reliable way to track our documents, their revisions, and whether or not they had been approved. To solve the problem, I wrote a database program called "TROLL" (from "document conTROL tool"). It was basically just a giant shell script that could be run from the command line of a Unix workstation, but the darned thing worked and got the job done. Everyone was surprised -- no one had thought that the administrative clerk / technical writer was also secretly a programmer. The software engineers were actually quite delighted, and my "geek cred" rose.
I did not remain in that job, of course. To many people's surprise (including my own in some ways) I handed in my resignation in June 1995 in order to enter the seminary and start my studies to become a priest. Being manager of the GIVO did allow me to leave with one other technological legacy, however. The task of coordinating between the business units involved in the GIVO required me to learn about something called the "Internet" (you may have heard of it), and particularly a new technology called the "World Wide Web" (you may have heard of that, too). Our web browser was called Mosaic, and there were very few web pages out there. Still, a whole new field was emerging. I learned how to code web pages in HTML, and in the few months prior to leaving Ericsson I actually became the first webmaster for the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops, which itself became the first episcopal conference in the world to have a presence on the web. The CCCB gave me an ongoing contract, so I was able to buy a decent computer for use during my studies -- and of course, to keep learning to program. Only now, my focus was the World Wide Web.
Saturday, 6 August 2016
Homily: Persevering in faith
Homily from August 14, 2016. A continuation of the one preached on August 7. Warning: while there is a lot of teaching here, it makes this a long one!
Friday, 5 August 2016
My emergence as a computer geek
My father's interest in amateur radio opened me up to a fascination with electronics, as well as to the marvel of using that technology to be able to communicate with the wider world over great distances. My father also was the instigator of my interest in computers.
My dad started working for the Department of the environment of the federal government in 1965, doing computer programming. You read that right, 1965. Computers in those days were BIG. The idea of a "portable computer" was ludicrous, and something with far less computing power than a typical calculator today would fill up a large room. I know, because when I would visit my dad at the office I'd see them for myself. It was all so...esoteric. The computer rooms were temperature controlled, filled with spinning tape drives and computer cabinets with flashing lights, and hum and whoosh of spinning fans...a kid could even (playfully) try and hide in there. I had the feeling I was entering into a different world, one that I knew not a lot of people ever saw. It was my entering the wardrobe moment.
Programming computers in those days was a bit of a pain. Programmers would have to load their programs using punched cards. During one of my visits (I must have been less than 10 years old) I distinctly remember having a chance to sit at the machine that produced those cards. It was a bit like a manual typewriter, except that instead of feeding in a sheet of paper a punch card was used. The keys would click and you could hear the hole being punched in the card. Of course, what was written on the card made no sense to me, and it was explained that this was a special language that the computer could read to make it run. From my point of view it was like magic, only intead of saying "Abracadabra" you'd say it in assembly language.
To my wonder, I discovered that it was also possible to have a computer at home, or at least to have access to one. The computers would sometimes have to be monitored throughout the night, and one evening my father brought home a strange-looking suitcase. Upon opening it, we saw a keyboard similar to those on the card-punching machines, as well as a couple of rubber cups into which he could fit our telephone headset. (I don't remember what model it was, but it looked almost identitical to this old beauty, a TI Silent 700 terminal.) He explained that this terminal would let him "talk" to the (huge) machines back in his office using the computer language -- over the telephone! Good grief, that meant computers could even use the phone to talk to each other! Would wonders never cease...
A few years later, another visit to the office introduced me to new ways to interact with the computer. Assembly language was out, and dad was now programming in Fortran (as he explained, just like people had different languages different computers might use different languages). As well, no more punched cards -- terminals with green monochrome monitors were the latest thing. In the old days he would have sat me in front of a card-punch machine to keep me entertained, but now he had something even better: my very first experience with a computer game. After a bit of research I now know that the game in question was called Colossal Cave Adventure. It didn't have any of the bells and whistles of today's games (it was purely text based, with no graphics at all) but nonetheless it was quite extraordinary. Colossal Cave Adventure allowed a player to enter commands using regular (albeit simplified) English, i.e. the user didn't also have to be a programmer. Prior to discovering that game, I saw computers as giant calculators: you entered the data, and got a result. Suddenly, it was all about interaction, and even with the machine itself.
We eventually got a video game console called the Atari 2600. The games were generally fun, but you were limited to just plugging in cartridges someone else had made -- there was no possibility for creative input by the user. Then, in my first weeks of high school, I attended a book fair in the school library where I discovered a book for programming computer games. Let me be clear, this book did not teach programming: it gave actual listings of computer program code that a user could enter manually to then run the game. (This would be completely unthinkable today, but back there there were whole magazines like Compute! that would publish monthly program listings.) Even though I didn't own a computer myself I bought the book immediately and tried to figure out how this particular computer language (called BASIC) worked. Eventually I decided to try and write a program of my own, and the result was a simple text-based golf game. Without a computer to actually test it on, though, I did the next best thing to check if it would actually work: I showed it to my dad. I remember how surprised he was when he started reviewing the code, and how delighted he was when he was able to tell me that he couldn't find a single programming error.
I don't know if that simple program is what prompted it or not, but shortly after that we got the computer that would prove to be the instrument of my full immersion into geekdom: the Commodore 64. Yes, you could play games, but you could also program in BASIC (the language I had learned for my golf game). I hacked the heck out of that thing. I entered code, I wrote my own programs, and while I couldn't make that thing dance I could literally make it sing (or at least make pretty sounds -- it had a really good sound chip). It didn't have a lot of resources (only 64K of memory, of which only about 38K was really accessible), but thanks to all kinds of code optimization tricks people were able to make it do amazing things. For myself, when I found that the BASIC language interpreter was too slow for some applications I learned hexadecimal and started to code in machine language (the C-64 Programmers Reference Guide was my geek bible). Honestly, it was a major creative outlet for me, and years later, when I saw the slogan "Code is Art" written on a T-shirt, I felt a moment not just of agreement but of recognition.
Those old Commodore programs live on thanks to C-64 emulation software that can be downloaded for free, and my old Commodore 64 is still sitting in my parent's basement. Just the sight of it still brings up fond memories, like a painter looking at one of his old palettes that just felt right in his hand.
POSTSCRIPT: A traffic camera caught a picture of a snowy owl in flight, and the image went viral in January 2016. While I think snowy owls are lovely birds, I have to say that the photo made me smile for a different reason. If you look at the picture, you'll see a building in the top middle with satellite dishes on the roof. That was my dad's old office!
My dad started working for the Department of the environment of the federal government in 1965, doing computer programming. You read that right, 1965. Computers in those days were BIG. The idea of a "portable computer" was ludicrous, and something with far less computing power than a typical calculator today would fill up a large room. I know, because when I would visit my dad at the office I'd see them for myself. It was all so...esoteric. The computer rooms were temperature controlled, filled with spinning tape drives and computer cabinets with flashing lights, and hum and whoosh of spinning fans...a kid could even (playfully) try and hide in there. I had the feeling I was entering into a different world, one that I knew not a lot of people ever saw. It was my entering the wardrobe moment.
Programming computers in those days was a bit of a pain. Programmers would have to load their programs using punched cards. During one of my visits (I must have been less than 10 years old) I distinctly remember having a chance to sit at the machine that produced those cards. It was a bit like a manual typewriter, except that instead of feeding in a sheet of paper a punch card was used. The keys would click and you could hear the hole being punched in the card. Of course, what was written on the card made no sense to me, and it was explained that this was a special language that the computer could read to make it run. From my point of view it was like magic, only intead of saying "Abracadabra" you'd say it in assembly language.
To my wonder, I discovered that it was also possible to have a computer at home, or at least to have access to one. The computers would sometimes have to be monitored throughout the night, and one evening my father brought home a strange-looking suitcase. Upon opening it, we saw a keyboard similar to those on the card-punching machines, as well as a couple of rubber cups into which he could fit our telephone headset. (I don't remember what model it was, but it looked almost identitical to this old beauty, a TI Silent 700 terminal.) He explained that this terminal would let him "talk" to the (huge) machines back in his office using the computer language -- over the telephone! Good grief, that meant computers could even use the phone to talk to each other! Would wonders never cease...
A few years later, another visit to the office introduced me to new ways to interact with the computer. Assembly language was out, and dad was now programming in Fortran (as he explained, just like people had different languages different computers might use different languages). As well, no more punched cards -- terminals with green monochrome monitors were the latest thing. In the old days he would have sat me in front of a card-punch machine to keep me entertained, but now he had something even better: my very first experience with a computer game. After a bit of research I now know that the game in question was called Colossal Cave Adventure. It didn't have any of the bells and whistles of today's games (it was purely text based, with no graphics at all) but nonetheless it was quite extraordinary. Colossal Cave Adventure allowed a player to enter commands using regular (albeit simplified) English, i.e. the user didn't also have to be a programmer. Prior to discovering that game, I saw computers as giant calculators: you entered the data, and got a result. Suddenly, it was all about interaction, and even with the machine itself.
We eventually got a video game console called the Atari 2600. The games were generally fun, but you were limited to just plugging in cartridges someone else had made -- there was no possibility for creative input by the user. Then, in my first weeks of high school, I attended a book fair in the school library where I discovered a book for programming computer games. Let me be clear, this book did not teach programming: it gave actual listings of computer program code that a user could enter manually to then run the game. (This would be completely unthinkable today, but back there there were whole magazines like Compute! that would publish monthly program listings.) Even though I didn't own a computer myself I bought the book immediately and tried to figure out how this particular computer language (called BASIC) worked. Eventually I decided to try and write a program of my own, and the result was a simple text-based golf game. Without a computer to actually test it on, though, I did the next best thing to check if it would actually work: I showed it to my dad. I remember how surprised he was when he started reviewing the code, and how delighted he was when he was able to tell me that he couldn't find a single programming error.
I don't know if that simple program is what prompted it or not, but shortly after that we got the computer that would prove to be the instrument of my full immersion into geekdom: the Commodore 64. Yes, you could play games, but you could also program in BASIC (the language I had learned for my golf game). I hacked the heck out of that thing. I entered code, I wrote my own programs, and while I couldn't make that thing dance I could literally make it sing (or at least make pretty sounds -- it had a really good sound chip). It didn't have a lot of resources (only 64K of memory, of which only about 38K was really accessible), but thanks to all kinds of code optimization tricks people were able to make it do amazing things. For myself, when I found that the BASIC language interpreter was too slow for some applications I learned hexadecimal and started to code in machine language (the C-64 Programmers Reference Guide was my geek bible). Honestly, it was a major creative outlet for me, and years later, when I saw the slogan "Code is Art" written on a T-shirt, I felt a moment not just of agreement but of recognition.
Those old Commodore programs live on thanks to C-64 emulation software that can be downloaded for free, and my old Commodore 64 is still sitting in my parent's basement. Just the sight of it still brings up fond memories, like a painter looking at one of his old palettes that just felt right in his hand.
POSTSCRIPT: A traffic camera caught a picture of a snowy owl in flight, and the image went viral in January 2016. While I think snowy owls are lovely birds, I have to say that the photo made me smile for a different reason. If you look at the picture, you'll see a building in the top middle with satellite dishes on the roof. That was my dad's old office!
Tuesday, 2 August 2016
RIP Uncle Bruce
I got word that my uncle Bruce Turner has died (b. 1927, d. August 1, 2016). Prayers for his wife, 2 sons, and grandchildren + great-grandchildren, please.
Sunday, 31 July 2016
Visit to Martyr's shrine
Saturday, 30 July 2016
My dad the ham
For those of us who are so entranced with the modern means of communication, we should acknowledge that there are those who went before us with the same desire to reach out over great distances. While the hobby has been in decline in recent years, for decades amateur radio (a.k.a. "ham radio") was the Internet of its day. My dad was a ham operator, and so I guess I got the bug from him.
Our first family home was a small house in Pierrefonds, Quebec. My dad had a workroom with all kinds of electronic equipment and tools, with pride of place given to the amateur radio receiver and transmitter. I can still see him sitting in front of it saying "CQ, CQ", the code informing the world that there was a ham ready to talk. His call sign at the time was VE2CS (a.k.a. "Victor-Echo-Two-Charlie-Sierra"), and he would introduce himself as "Oscar-Whiskey-Echo-November" to anyone he contacted. Part of the amateur radio tradition is that operators would send each other QSL cards, and I remember stacks of these from all over the world filed in different nooks and crannies of his radio shack. Perhaps some ham operators out there will find one of his QSL cards in their archives...
My father would also tune in to radio stations all over the world on shortwave, and I distinctly remember listening to Voice of America, Radio Moscow, and even Radio Vaticana while sitting in his radio shack. So much for being stuck listening to a few local stations! I remember our listening sessions sparking all kinds of interesting discussions between us about how to exercise critical thinking in the face of "new media", and that was in the 1970's!
I later learned that my father had been a ham for a long, long time. Even to this day, an amateur radio operator needs to get a license to operate, and he was so proud of the fact that he had managed to pass his license exam when he was only 15, i.e. back in 1936! I remember thinking "Wow, even kids can do this."
One day, my father got out some components and, following a mysterious-looking diagram, built a small crystal radio. I didn't see how it could work, given it had no battery or external power, but wouldn't you know that when I put that earpiece in my ear I could hear the radio signal coming in from a station nearby. It was the radio waves themselves that were being converted to electricity to produce the sound. Amazing! So I was hooked. We started building electronics projects using the old Radio Shack electronic project kits, and later he taught me how to use a soldering iron and follow circuit diagrams (I remember being proud of knowing how to read the coloured bands on a resistor). Dad always had plenty of resistors, capacitors, diodes and whatnot in that workroom, so I never had to go far to find what I needed. I even remember hooking up light emitting diodes (LEDs) and wondering if they'd ever have enough power one day to serve as some sort of flashlight...who knew!
I remember one component in particular that caught my attention: the relay. This was a fascinating item, because (as my dad taught me) it could be used to create simple logic gates and implement Boolean algebra in a real system. (Sorry, did I geek out there?) Anyway, trust me, this is more interesting and important than you might think because these principles are still at the very root of modern digital electronics. Modern chips use transistors, not relays, but I remember reading a short story as a kid, in which Isaac Asimov described a massive supercomputer called Multivac working to the "clicking of relays".
This discovery of the principles of computing eventually led to my own interests diverging from those of my dad. Remember how I was building those electronic kits? Well, a new one caught my eye: the ZX81, which could be purchased in kit form and assembled at home. The only problem was that I didn't have the money to get one. So I started saving my pennies, which in the end I wound up using for something even better.
More to come!
Saturday, 17 May 2014
The story of my personal encounter with Christ
I had a chance to speak at the Montée Jeunesse in May 2017. In my talk I had a chance to share part of my personal conversion story -- in particular, the story of how I had a personal encounter with Christ in a powerful mystical experience. I share it in the hopes it will help others as well.
Monday, 28 October 2013
Canon law diploma... now what?
As I posted on Twitter and Facebook a few days ago, I recently received word that the University of Strasbourg accepted the results of my final exams and awarded me a Licence in Canon Law. This is the civil version of the Licence -- the canonical version will require more work. Yes, yes, I know it is ironic that I've got a civil degree in canon law, but that's part of the unique features of studying an uber-Catholic subject at a state university in France that operates under a concordat negotiated at the time of Napoleon. Even if it isn't a final result, this diploma is a step in the right direction.
Except... now I need to decide if I continue or not. It is a lot of work, and work is not something I am short of at the moment.
I've discussed this with people whose advice I trust, and we've turned over the problem quite a bit, looking at all the angles. In the end, though, for me the question really comes down to this: "What does the Holy Spirit want?"
I've actually benefitted quite a bit from this canon law experience. I don't just mean the technical knowledge, although that is helpful. More important than that, however, is the fact that I feel I've grown in my ability to think with the mind of the Church (sentire cum ecclesia).
I've often met people who've thought that their specific discipline was the real core of the "mind of the Church" -- liturgists who think that it's liturgy (with the rest being secondary), social justice types who think that it is social thought (with the rest being secondary), ecclesiologists who think that it is ecclesiology (with the rest being secondary), and yes, canonists who think that canon law is the best expression of the "mind of the Church", with (you guessed it), the rest being secondary. Now I don't agree with any of these kinds of people, because I believe that to think with the mind of the Church means integrating the insights of all these disciplines (and more!). Still, I definitely see that canon law has its place, and now that my own understanding of it has grown I feel that my own ability to live that sentire cum ecclesia has grown as well.
I see canon law as a form of practical pastoral theology. It does not exhaust all forms of practical action that the Church undertakes, but it does permit a disciplined reflection on the question of justice within the Church, and thus make sure that practical action is coordinated for the sake of the common good. This is not negligible. It is far to easy to ignore the demands of justice when there is a pressing need of some sort. Of course, that turns into "doing evil for the sake of a good end", which is never acceptable, but gosh it can be so tempting when faced with a great need and a (seemingly) minor evil. For me, canon law is about asking ourselves the question, "what would the Church look like as a just society?" As someone now charged with helping to govern that Church, this question reaches to the core of my vocation.
So I am grateful for the studies I have been able to experience, and to my professors in Strasbourg who have guided those studies. I'm still not sure if I will continue, given the other demands on my time (some of the social challenges we are facing here in Quebec, for example, desperately need the light of the Gospel). But we will see. Please pray for me as I continue to discern.
Except... now I need to decide if I continue or not. It is a lot of work, and work is not something I am short of at the moment.
I've discussed this with people whose advice I trust, and we've turned over the problem quite a bit, looking at all the angles. In the end, though, for me the question really comes down to this: "What does the Holy Spirit want?"
I've actually benefitted quite a bit from this canon law experience. I don't just mean the technical knowledge, although that is helpful. More important than that, however, is the fact that I feel I've grown in my ability to think with the mind of the Church (sentire cum ecclesia).
I've often met people who've thought that their specific discipline was the real core of the "mind of the Church" -- liturgists who think that it's liturgy (with the rest being secondary), social justice types who think that it is social thought (with the rest being secondary), ecclesiologists who think that it is ecclesiology (with the rest being secondary), and yes, canonists who think that canon law is the best expression of the "mind of the Church", with (you guessed it), the rest being secondary. Now I don't agree with any of these kinds of people, because I believe that to think with the mind of the Church means integrating the insights of all these disciplines (and more!). Still, I definitely see that canon law has its place, and now that my own understanding of it has grown I feel that my own ability to live that sentire cum ecclesia has grown as well.
I see canon law as a form of practical pastoral theology. It does not exhaust all forms of practical action that the Church undertakes, but it does permit a disciplined reflection on the question of justice within the Church, and thus make sure that practical action is coordinated for the sake of the common good. This is not negligible. It is far to easy to ignore the demands of justice when there is a pressing need of some sort. Of course, that turns into "doing evil for the sake of a good end", which is never acceptable, but gosh it can be so tempting when faced with a great need and a (seemingly) minor evil. For me, canon law is about asking ourselves the question, "what would the Church look like as a just society?" As someone now charged with helping to govern that Church, this question reaches to the core of my vocation.
So I am grateful for the studies I have been able to experience, and to my professors in Strasbourg who have guided those studies. I'm still not sure if I will continue, given the other demands on my time (some of the social challenges we are facing here in Quebec, for example, desperately need the light of the Gospel). But we will see. Please pray for me as I continue to discern.
Tuesday, 24 September 2013
Poverty and providence
I grew up in a typical middle-class family. While I weren't surrounded by luxury, I do not remember lacking anything. Of course, that didn't mean I always appreciated what I had. I suppose that is the negative side of being a child blessed with a general sense of material security — you risk taking things for granted, not out of ill-will, but simply out of inexperience.
Still, this did not meant that I didn't know poverty existed. I remember seeing images of extreme poverty on television — families experiencing famine in some distant country, for example, who were on display as part of some telethon to raise money for a charity. Of course, the producers of these telethons would put up the most pitiful scenes, such as of hungry mothers trying to tend to their malnourished children. I was very disturbed by such images, and I remember asking my father about them. My naive question was direct and to the point:
"Why do they have so many children if they can't feed them?" I asked. It seemed to me to be a basic element of parental responsibility.
"Well," my father replied, "they probably had those children at a time when there was enough food. It is only after that the problems began. But you know, Tom, there is enough food in the world to feed everyone. The problem isn't growing it. The problem is sharing it, and getting it to everyone."
My father's answer shed a completely new light on the situation. I suddenly realised that poverty was a deeply moral question, and that it wasn't just a moral question for those who were poor. Somehow, everyone was involved, whatever their wealth or poverty. It was a question of solidarity.
I had a chance to experience in a practical way through an activity organized at a local parish sometime later. It was called a "poor man's supper". I had been to such an event before. They were normally fundraising dinners, in which the participants paid for tickets as for a typical fundraising dinner, but for which the meal was very simple (usually not much more than soup). The goal was to be in solidarity with the poor, not only through the donation of money, but also in what we ate. In the case of this parish, however, there was an additional twist. Once we were seated, an explanation was given regarding what would happen next. Each participant would turn over their plate to see what kind of meal they would get. Most participants were going to get the usual simple meal, but two at each table were to be exceptions: one participant was to only receive water and a bit of bread, while the other would get a sumptuous feast. The goal was to sensitize us to the way food was actually distributed in the world — most got something, while some got almost nothing, and a few were able to eat like kings.
One thing was for sure: in my little kid brain (and little kids are always hungry), I really didn't want to get the non-meal. I remember being quite nervous about it, in fact. As it turned out, however, I ended up with the sumptuous feast! At first I ate with relish — after all, it wasn't as if it was my fault that I got lucky in my choice of seat. Still, as the meal progressed I couldn't help but think that something was wrong with this scenario.
I'd like to claim that I immediately started to share my meal with others, but to be honest I don't remember if I did or not. However, I do remember reflecting on the experience afterwards, putting it in a bigger context. "How is it," I wondered, "that I was born in Canada, in a place of plenty, when I could have just as easily been born someplace else, such as the place shown in the television program, where people lived in desperate poverty?"
In other words, was it just luck, like it had been with the plate?
Or was it a sign of God's providence?
And if it was providence, what responsibility did that mean for me to share what I had with others?
Heavy thoughts for a little kid, but looking back I know now that these were the first stirrings of a sense of social justice and solidarity within me.
Still, this did not meant that I didn't know poverty existed. I remember seeing images of extreme poverty on television — families experiencing famine in some distant country, for example, who were on display as part of some telethon to raise money for a charity. Of course, the producers of these telethons would put up the most pitiful scenes, such as of hungry mothers trying to tend to their malnourished children. I was very disturbed by such images, and I remember asking my father about them. My naive question was direct and to the point:
"Why do they have so many children if they can't feed them?" I asked. It seemed to me to be a basic element of parental responsibility.
"Well," my father replied, "they probably had those children at a time when there was enough food. It is only after that the problems began. But you know, Tom, there is enough food in the world to feed everyone. The problem isn't growing it. The problem is sharing it, and getting it to everyone."
My father's answer shed a completely new light on the situation. I suddenly realised that poverty was a deeply moral question, and that it wasn't just a moral question for those who were poor. Somehow, everyone was involved, whatever their wealth or poverty. It was a question of solidarity.
I had a chance to experience in a practical way through an activity organized at a local parish sometime later. It was called a "poor man's supper". I had been to such an event before. They were normally fundraising dinners, in which the participants paid for tickets as for a typical fundraising dinner, but for which the meal was very simple (usually not much more than soup). The goal was to be in solidarity with the poor, not only through the donation of money, but also in what we ate. In the case of this parish, however, there was an additional twist. Once we were seated, an explanation was given regarding what would happen next. Each participant would turn over their plate to see what kind of meal they would get. Most participants were going to get the usual simple meal, but two at each table were to be exceptions: one participant was to only receive water and a bit of bread, while the other would get a sumptuous feast. The goal was to sensitize us to the way food was actually distributed in the world — most got something, while some got almost nothing, and a few were able to eat like kings.
One thing was for sure: in my little kid brain (and little kids are always hungry), I really didn't want to get the non-meal. I remember being quite nervous about it, in fact. As it turned out, however, I ended up with the sumptuous feast! At first I ate with relish — after all, it wasn't as if it was my fault that I got lucky in my choice of seat. Still, as the meal progressed I couldn't help but think that something was wrong with this scenario.
I'd like to claim that I immediately started to share my meal with others, but to be honest I don't remember if I did or not. However, I do remember reflecting on the experience afterwards, putting it in a bigger context. "How is it," I wondered, "that I was born in Canada, in a place of plenty, when I could have just as easily been born someplace else, such as the place shown in the television program, where people lived in desperate poverty?"
In other words, was it just luck, like it had been with the plate?
Or was it a sign of God's providence?
And if it was providence, what responsibility did that mean for me to share what I had with others?
Heavy thoughts for a little kid, but looking back I know now that these were the first stirrings of a sense of social justice and solidarity within me.
Friday, 19 October 2012
The power of reconciliation
One of the "rites of passage" of a Catholic child is making his or her first confession. For those unfamiliar with confession in the Catholic tradition, the practice is that the penitent confesses his or her sins to a priest, who offers some counsel as well as a penance which the penitent must accomplish (usually a prayer or an act of devotion or charity of some kind). It is generally held that it is unlikely that a child has sufficient moral awareness before the age of 6 or 7 to commit a real sin (and even then, it is unlikely to be very grave). Still, we all know that kids have at least started, by that point, to have some sense of moral action, and so it is normal that young Catholics start to be educated about this sacrament of forgiveness of sins.
I remember when I was first being taught about sin and reconciliation. Like lots of kids, I wasn't too sure how to know when something was a sin and when it wasn't. My father gave me the following advice: "For something to be a sin, you have to know it is wrong, you have to have chosen to do it, and you have to have done it."
We then talked about those criteria. The following conversation isn't an actual verbatim account, but it generally summarizes the conversation we had that day.
"So if I didn't know it was wrong, and I did it, it isn't a sin?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered. "But that doesn't change the fact that it was wrong, and so probably hurt somebody. We have a responsibility to learn what is right and what is wrong, so as to be good people."
"And if I did it by accident, and not by choice, it isn't a sin?" I continued.
"Correct," to replied. "But that is only true for true accidents, and not something that happens because of negligence. Also, even if we do something bad by accident, we are responsible to help set things right."
"And what do you mean by 'You have to have done it'?" I asked further.
My father replied, "I mean that sometimes we feel a temptation to do sins, and we can feel bad that we have those temptations. Still, a temptation is not a sin. When you go to confession to the priest, you can talk about your temptations with him if you want, and maybe he can help you deal with them. But you should not feel guilty about them like you would for actual sins you've done."
With this information, I felt I was getting pretty ready for my first confession. I had been taught that God loved me and wanted for forgive me for any bad things I had done, and that now I had a much better sense of what "sin" actually was (and so I knew what things I was supposed to say). Still, I have to admit that I was a bit nervous. I trusted the priests I knew — they had always been very kind to me — but did I really need to tell them about my bad acts? Couldn't we just forget them, pretending like they had never happened?
As it turned out, something occurred during that time of preparation that changed my perspective on this sacrament forever.
At a certain point in that period of preparation — I don't remember exactly when — an adult I looked up to hurt my feelings. I don't remember what it was about, all I remember was the deep sadness I was feeling. Even worse than the hurt, mind you, was the alienation: when someone we look up to and love hurts us, it can make us feel terribly alone. That lonesomeness can even be worse than the original pain.
A few hours after the hurtful incident in question, the same adult came to see me. I had no idea what to expect. In gentle tones, he told me he had thought about the incident, and that he felt badly. He then came right out and apologized. He had done wrong, he admitted it, he promised not to do it again, and he wanted to make amends.
I was in awe.
I was partly in awe of this adult, who was making this offer to a little kid. As a child I had often felt others' love and care, but this was the first time I had ever felt so respected.
But I was also in awe of the moment itself. I knew something extraordinarily special was happening. I remember thinking to myself, "God must be like this somehow."
And so, we were reconciled. Truly reconciled. Again, I don't even remember what the actual hurtful incident was, but I do remember the sadness and pain of alienation being replaced by the joy of genuine reconciliation.
I should add that I was now completely sold on the actual sacrament of reconciliation itself. That adult had examined his conscience, seen he had done wrong, admitted it to another, promised not to repeat it, and offered to make amends. I figured that if an adult had been willing to respect a little kid enough to ask for forgiveness, I as a little kid should be willing to do the same with God. If confession was the means — and the steps the adult had lived sounded a lot like what I had been taught about going to confession — then so be it.
It went beyond this, though. It wasn't just that I was now comfortable with another element of my Catholic duty. No, I wanted to go to confession. We had heard the story of the Prodigal Son as part of our preparation for this sacrament during our catechism classes. I remember being struck by the joy of the father when his errant son came home. I had no trouble believing that part of the story at all. I could imagine the pain of separation each one must have felt when the son left, but I could also understand very well the joy of their reconciliation.
That's what confession was about, I reasoned. It wasn't about rehashing our sins, it was about bringing joy to God and letting him bring an end to our own spiritual isolation.
I don't remember who the priest was for my first experience of the sacrament. I have no idea what I said in my first confession, and given I was only a kid I doubt it was anything all that terrible. But I do remember knowing how holy a moment it was that I was living.
The Catechism of the Catholic Church tells us that this sacrament can be called by different names, but my favourite title, even to this day, is the "sacrament of reconciliation".
I remember when I was first being taught about sin and reconciliation. Like lots of kids, I wasn't too sure how to know when something was a sin and when it wasn't. My father gave me the following advice: "For something to be a sin, you have to know it is wrong, you have to have chosen to do it, and you have to have done it."
We then talked about those criteria. The following conversation isn't an actual verbatim account, but it generally summarizes the conversation we had that day.
"So if I didn't know it was wrong, and I did it, it isn't a sin?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered. "But that doesn't change the fact that it was wrong, and so probably hurt somebody. We have a responsibility to learn what is right and what is wrong, so as to be good people."
"And if I did it by accident, and not by choice, it isn't a sin?" I continued.
"Correct," to replied. "But that is only true for true accidents, and not something that happens because of negligence. Also, even if we do something bad by accident, we are responsible to help set things right."
"And what do you mean by 'You have to have done it'?" I asked further.
My father replied, "I mean that sometimes we feel a temptation to do sins, and we can feel bad that we have those temptations. Still, a temptation is not a sin. When you go to confession to the priest, you can talk about your temptations with him if you want, and maybe he can help you deal with them. But you should not feel guilty about them like you would for actual sins you've done."
With this information, I felt I was getting pretty ready for my first confession. I had been taught that God loved me and wanted for forgive me for any bad things I had done, and that now I had a much better sense of what "sin" actually was (and so I knew what things I was supposed to say). Still, I have to admit that I was a bit nervous. I trusted the priests I knew — they had always been very kind to me — but did I really need to tell them about my bad acts? Couldn't we just forget them, pretending like they had never happened?
As it turned out, something occurred during that time of preparation that changed my perspective on this sacrament forever.
At a certain point in that period of preparation — I don't remember exactly when — an adult I looked up to hurt my feelings. I don't remember what it was about, all I remember was the deep sadness I was feeling. Even worse than the hurt, mind you, was the alienation: when someone we look up to and love hurts us, it can make us feel terribly alone. That lonesomeness can even be worse than the original pain.
A few hours after the hurtful incident in question, the same adult came to see me. I had no idea what to expect. In gentle tones, he told me he had thought about the incident, and that he felt badly. He then came right out and apologized. He had done wrong, he admitted it, he promised not to do it again, and he wanted to make amends.
I was in awe.
I was partly in awe of this adult, who was making this offer to a little kid. As a child I had often felt others' love and care, but this was the first time I had ever felt so respected.
But I was also in awe of the moment itself. I knew something extraordinarily special was happening. I remember thinking to myself, "God must be like this somehow."
And so, we were reconciled. Truly reconciled. Again, I don't even remember what the actual hurtful incident was, but I do remember the sadness and pain of alienation being replaced by the joy of genuine reconciliation.
I should add that I was now completely sold on the actual sacrament of reconciliation itself. That adult had examined his conscience, seen he had done wrong, admitted it to another, promised not to repeat it, and offered to make amends. I figured that if an adult had been willing to respect a little kid enough to ask for forgiveness, I as a little kid should be willing to do the same with God. If confession was the means — and the steps the adult had lived sounded a lot like what I had been taught about going to confession — then so be it.
It went beyond this, though. It wasn't just that I was now comfortable with another element of my Catholic duty. No, I wanted to go to confession. We had heard the story of the Prodigal Son as part of our preparation for this sacrament during our catechism classes. I remember being struck by the joy of the father when his errant son came home. I had no trouble believing that part of the story at all. I could imagine the pain of separation each one must have felt when the son left, but I could also understand very well the joy of their reconciliation.
That's what confession was about, I reasoned. It wasn't about rehashing our sins, it was about bringing joy to God and letting him bring an end to our own spiritual isolation.
I don't remember who the priest was for my first experience of the sacrament. I have no idea what I said in my first confession, and given I was only a kid I doubt it was anything all that terrible. But I do remember knowing how holy a moment it was that I was living.
The Catechism of the Catholic Church tells us that this sacrament can be called by different names, but my favourite title, even to this day, is the "sacrament of reconciliation".
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